It’s May of 2024. I’m writing this to you on the five-hundred-and-fifty-seventh day of my two-year bad-luck sentence. I am not the only one afflicted with this curse, but few others are brave enough to speak out about it. I’m sharing what happened to me in the hopes that it will prevent others from going down this dark road.
My story begins in November of 2022, when I first saw the latest trending “sticker” on Instagram Stories that stated “old picture of you or bad luck for 2 years.” My friends had responded to it by posting cute photos of themselves at various ages—from baby photos to thirst traps from their mid-twenties. I enjoyed seeing the photos that people posted, but didn’t feel any particular urge to add one of my own. I figured that participation in Instagram trends was optional, and that there was no harm in opting out. I could not have been more wrong.
A few days after the trend faded from view, I received a push notification from Instagram that read, “You disobeyed the sticker. Now you will pay. Your two years of bad luck begin today.” I laughed it off, thinking that it must be some sort of weird scheme to get me to buy something, like everything else on Instagram. Unfortunately, the threat was real. Instagram had cast a legitimate evil hex upon me. (Most people don’t know this, but we all consented to being hexed when we signed the platform’s terms of service.)
Minutes later, I got a text from my boyfriend of seven years: “Hey, I really appreciate your interest, but I don’t think this is what I’m looking for right now. All the best!” This made no sense—our last (pre-hex) texts were about where to go to dinner that night. I called him to ask what he could possibly mean by his emotionless, Hinge-style breakup text, but, before I could finish recording my voice mail, a U-Haul filled with all my possessions from the apartment we shared pulled up in front of the coffee shop where I was sitting. The driver yelled, “Are you Katie? I’m the TaskRabbit your ex hired to drop off your stuff. Where would you like me to unload it?”
I had to admit that this situation definitely seemed unlucky, but I refused to believe that it could have anything to do with the weird notification I’d received. Rather than let myself wallow over the breakup, I logged into the Airbnb app and rented an exorbitantly expensive apartment for myself and my truck full of stuff. I knew that it wasn’t sustainable to live in this place for long, but I had a decent-paying job and figured I could manage quadruple my previous rent for a few months until I found a more permanent option. If only I had known how much worse things would get.
The next day, I went into work and found my boss waiting for me, flanked by three security guards. “We’ve noticed that you’ve been taking home a number of free snacks from the office,” my boss said, steely-eyed. I was shocked. He definitely stole snacks, too. Everyone stole snacks! My boss hissed at me, “Theft is a very serious crime, Katie. We can’t just keep looking the other way as you rob us of innumerable bags of cheese crisps and vegan jerky. You are fired, effective immediately.” The guards did a quick search of my pockets—which yielded a few packets of sugar I had taken from the coffee station that morning—hoisted me up by my armpits and carried me out of the building. It was then that I started to believe the curse might be real.
After blowing my entire life savings on the Airbnb, plus restitution to my former employer for the snacks I stole, I was forced to move back home with my mom. Upon arriving, I tripped on her doorstep. Thankfully, we found some YouTube videos about how to set bones. I probably should have gone to a doctor, but I didn’t have the money; and also, knowing my luck, I’d probably have contracted an antibiotic-resistant strain of necrotizing fasciitis just from setting foot in a medical facility. Such is life when you’re cursed.
Each morning while I eat my gruel (all of my teeth spontaneously fell out in 2023), my mom asks me why I didn’t just post an old picture of myself when the sticker told me to. “I would have sent you a cute one from your baby album if you just asked,” she says, ruefully. “Believe me, I wish I had,” I reply from the padded cage where she’s forced to keep me.
Of course, I now respond to every sticker trend I see on Instagram. I have posted photos of myself eating ice cream, sticking out my tongue, doing an idiotic dance (before I broke all my bones), and making a viral stew recipe. This isn’t a joke; it’s deathly serious. Everyone must post. This isn’t opt-in. It’s mandatory. For the love of God, obey the stickers. ♦
